


cat dad

by bitnotgood



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Multi, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:08:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24728002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitnotgood/pseuds/bitnotgood
Summary: “John Silver,” he introduces. “I’m here to see a man about a cat.”Flinthatesthe man on sight.or: james flint has been living on his own for the past three years, but he hasn’t felt like he’s really been living. that is, until he finally meets his obnoxious neighbor. and his one-eyed cat.from there shenanigans ensue and flint might just learn how to deal with his past and his present.
Relationships: Captain Flint | James McGraw/John Silver
Comments: 48
Kudos: 88





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the cat dad fic! I’ve been working on this thing off and on for over two whole years and it’s time it finally gets to be seen by others. Maybe one day it will have a different name, but it will forever be “cat dad” in my heart lol. 
> 
> This fic is not finished, but I have it plotted and am actively working on it! (comments and encouragement are v much appreciated!!!)
> 
> Thanks to ellen for putting up with me talking about this damn thing for an age, to [queergoblin](https://queergoblin.tumblr.com/) for answering my random questions, and [thestarskeepfalling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thestarskeepfalling/pseuds/thestarskeepfalling) for finally whipping it into shape and motivating me these past few weeks. <3
> 
> This fic will reference past James/Hamiltons, past Madi/Silver, and complex Miranda/James feelings, but the endgame is silverflint. Additional tags will be added as needed, but nothing too crazy will come up.

James Flint is going to kill his neighbor.

One of these days it’s just going to happen. He’ll finally snap. Flint will feel zero remorse and finally, finally be able to get to sleep peacefully. Something he hasn’t done consistently in the past two months.

Flint has never met his neighbor, but he’s crafted a mental image to work with when contemplating homicide. He knows his neighbor is a man with the last name of Silver, but the rest is up to Flint’s imagination. He pictures him as some kind of gym rat who blasts EDM and techno at inappropriate hours (confirmed), drinks energy drinks and protein shakes religiously, overly muscular, and generally just an obnoxious shit (confirmed because Flint says so). His first name is probably Brent or fucking Chad.

Chad Silver. Sounds like an absolute dick.

Flint’s colleagues have varying opinions regarding his dislike of his neighbor. Gates thinks he’s a touch dramatic about the whole thing. Eleanor usually thinks he’s in the right and supports his murderous plans, which is all the validation he needs. Besides, he’s not actually going to kill his neighbor. Flint is trying to live a less confrontational life after all.

So, with that goal in mind, Flint only thinks about killing his neighbor on nights like these when he’s in bed at 11pm and the acrid smell of burning popcorn comes wafting through the vents. Tonight he’s thinking about kicking Silver right off the roof of their building. Tossing him into the sea would be good, too. Of course he’d have to find a boat...

It’s a bit soothing to think through these situations. It feels more productive than counting sheep at least. Thomas would always suggest that when Flint was restless in the night. He’d run his fingers along Flint’s sides, place kisses on his neck, and tell him to start counting sheep. That suggestion usually led to other activities, but they would eventually end in sleep.

Flint’s chest aches at the memory.

-

It’s nearing midnight when the loud beat starts thumping against the wall. Flint knocks at the wall, but it makes no difference. He puts one of the pillows over his head and wills sleep to pull him under.

-

When he gets to work the next morning Flint drops his things off at his office and makes his way to the lounge. He finds Eleanor talking to another teacher while sipping from a paper cup of coffee. Flint steps past them to fill his own mug.

There’s a newspaper sitting on the table in the middle of the room. He looks at the headline and frowns, skimming the rest of the article. It isn’t long before Eleanor is alongside him sitting partially on the table.

“Morning, Ms. Guthrie,” Flint says, opening the paper.

He can feel her assessing gaze. “Have a rough night?” Flint huffs. “Was it Chad?” she asks just as Hal Gates walks into the lounge.

“Not this again,” Gates sighs loudly. He assumes Flint and Eleanor have started discussing maiming tactics. It’s not an unfair assumption, but Flint is annoyed he’s being reprimanded for something he hasn’t had the chance to do. Eleanor gives him a small, conspiratorial grin as Gates walks by to prepare a cup of tea.

When he’s finished he gives Flint a pointed look. “Have you even tried talking to your landlord? Maybe she can speak to your neighbor about the noise.”

Flint lets out a bark of a laugh. “Of course I’ve tried that.” Gates seems unimpressed. “My neighbor seems to have won her over somehow. She insists he’s not a problem and that there have been no other complaints.”

Flint had given it a month before talking to Rose, one half of the mother-daughter duo that manages the flat complex. When he listed the problems she seemed aghast.

“Mr Silver? Can’t be. He’s such a lovely boy. He joined Lucy and me for dinner just the other week.”

Flint insisted. “There must have been some complaints. He was playing very loud music at one in the morning. On a _Tuesday._ ”

Rose grasped his arm, her grip much tighter than Flint had been expecting. “He’s a good boy,” she said sternly. Though small in stature and climbing in years, Flint has always found her to be intimidating.

“Alright,” Flint had said and Rose let go of his arm.

She smiled revealing a smudge of lipstick on her teeth. “Glad that’s resolved. Don’t forget, rent is due next Friday.”

When she left, Flint was left feeling confused by the entire exchange. Even now Flint feels a little shaken by Rose’s protectiveness.

Gates comes to join them, leaning against the table on Flint’s other side. “Well, then have you tried talking to your neighbor?” Flint opens his mouth to respond, but quickly closes it. To that, Gates raises his eyebrows.

“Smug is not a good look for you, Mr Gates.”

Gates continues to look smug and Eleanor rolls her eyes at the two of them, but smiles nonetheless. Then the first bell of the morning rings signaling everyone should be getting to their classes—teachers included.

Eleanor, as the principle, always does a morning round of the school. This morning there’s a commotion at the other end of the hall she decides to investigate. She waves the two of them off as they head in the opposite direction to their shared office.

“I think we’ve learned something this morning,” Gates says when they stop outside of his classroom.

“Oh?”

Gates levels him with a look. “Talk to your goddamn neighbor, Flint.”

Flint is about to rebuttal, but Gates is already turning towards his classroom, wrangling in unruly teenagers.

-

Flint doesn’t talk to his neighbor.

He fully intended to if the opportunity arose, but Sunday morning comes about and there hasn’t been any kind of disruption from his next door neighbor. _Thank fuck._

In the past three years, Flint has come to appreciate the quiet of living on his own.

He’s even managed to cultivate the perfect routine for himself, which includes blissfully uneventful Sundays. Sundays filled with weekly shopping, grading assignments, catching up on news, and tending to miscellaneous things around his flat.

Today is _almost_ one of those blissfully uneventful Sundays.

Flint’s shopping goes by quickly and easily. The bus ride home feels faster than usual and it doesn’t take long before Flint finds himself outside the main entrance of his flat complex, attempting to extract his keys from his back pocket. He manages, but only after admitting defeat and putting one of the bags on the ground. The lift is notoriously slow, so he opts for taking the stairs up to the third floor.

From the end of the hall he notices a woman standing outside of his flat and frowns. When he gets closer, though, he finds she’s actually standing outside of his neighbor’s flat. She’s also holding what appears to be a small animal crate.

Flint sighs. Knowing his luck, she’s bringing a small yapping dog as a new companion for his neighbor.

He starts to walk behind the woman and notices that she has a phone to her ear. “What do you mean, _‘what do I mean?’_ I have to go to a meeting, John. I can’t just leave her here,” she says slowly as though she’s talking to a child. “Yes, alright,” she says, noticing Flint for the first time. He raises his eyebrows in lieu of a greeting. She smiles sweetly at him before saying, “Fine, okay. Talk to you later,” in a tone that's annoyed, but clearly fond.

Flint is just crossing the threshold with his groceries when the woman calls out. “Excuse me?”

He takes a deep breath and resists the urge to pretend he didn’t hear her. Flint puts his bag on the floor and turns to face her.

Not since meeting Miranda for the first time has Flint been so taken by a woman as he is now. She has strong features that are further pronounced by the way she holds herself—tall and stoic. Her eyes, however, are warm and gentle. She wears her hair intricately braided and pulled back into a tight ponytail.

Flint has obviously just met this woman, but she commands a regal presence that he can’t help but be in awe over.

“You must be John’s neighbor,” she says, smiling brightly.

The mention of his neighbor breaks the spell and Flint finds himself frowning. Although his neighbor seems to be doing something right to be worthy of a moment of this woman’s time. “John _Silver?_ ” His reaction seems to amuse her and she nods. “Then yes, I’m his neighbor. James Flint,” he adds, offering her his hand.

She places the crate on the ground before taking his hand in a firm handshake, something Flint has always appreciated, and smiles. “Madi Scott." As they shake hands Madi seems to look him over carefully. Flint might consider it calculative, intimidating even, if it weren't for the fact that her eyes still seemed gentle. Then it seems whatever she was working on finally comes together.

“I actually have a favor to ask of you," she begins, slowly. "John had told me—promised me, in fact—that he’d be here, but he is not. I have a meeting to run to and I don’t exactly want to leave her outside his door. Would you mind...?” Madi trails off looking, almost guiltily, down to the crate at her feet.

Doing _anything_ for his neighbor is one of the last things that Flint would ever want to do, especially when it involves something in a crate of all things. “I don’t think-”

“It won’t be for very long,” Madi says, bending down to pick up the crate.

“Ms Scott-”

“Please, call me Madi.” Flint attempts to interject, but Madi carries on. “Normally I’d hate to impose like this, but I really do have to run.”

Before he realizes what’s happening, Madi is already pushing the crate into Flint’s arms. He scrambles to take hold of the cage, unable to get a comfortable grip on it, but he manages. Madi smiles at him then, and places a warm hand on his arm. She squeezes it briefly before saying, “I truly appreciate this, James.”

Then she’s turning and heading back down the hall.

“Do you know when he should be getting back?” Flint calls after her.

“Soon!” is all Madi manages to call over her shoulder before disappearing down the stairs.

Flint feels as though he’s just been through a whirlwind. He lifts the crate up to eye level and peers inside. One wide, green eye blinks back at him. The empty spot to the left where her other eye should have been looks as if someone had wiped it away with their thumb.

“Fuck,” Flint says to the cat. It opens its mouth, tiny teeth poking out, and meows at him.

So much for quiet Sundays.

-

Twenty minutes later the cat crate is on the counter, still containing the cat.

He’s not sure what to count this as, but he adds it as another strike against his neighbor. His neighbor that now has a complete name. _John Silver._

 _Fuck John Silver,_ he thinks.

He's just finished putting the groceries away and starting to plan dinner when Flint hears knocking at the door. “Coming!” he calls, grabbing at the crate. The cat lets out a low yowl at the sudden shift in positions. “ _Sorry,_ ” Flint says to the cat like a fucking idiot.

When he opens the door Flint realizes he was not at all prepared for what awaited on the other side. Silver, at least he assumes this is Silver, full on beams in Flint’s direction. “Hello there!”

For some reason he finds himself even more annoyed having come face to face with his neighbor. The past two months Flint has created an image of his neighbor to hate and what he’s met with does not match up. John Silver looks like a man Flint wants to hate, but for entirely different reasons.

It makes sense that Rose defended this man so sternly, with his bright, wide smile and brighter blue eyes that crinkle at the corners. That, paired with the dark mass of curls framing his face makes John Silver a man that was meant to charm. He doesn’t look like an honest man, far from it, but he is an attractive man.

He curses himself for agreeing to take the damn cat. Flint could have lived his entire life in blissful ignorance until he was finally ready to confront (or murder) the man.

The cat lets out another long meow and James is suddenly aware that too much time has passed without him saying anything. He lets himself meet Silver’s eyes, and is surprised to find the same wide-eyed expression to still be present. “John Silver,” he introduces. “I’m here to see a man about a cat.”

Flint _hates_ the man.

“You just missed your girlfriend,” Flint says stupidly, pushing the cat towards Silver. He’s not sure where that came from. He generally avoids making assumptions about people, and it’s not like he actually gives a shit about this Silver’s personal life.

Silver holds the cat crate up to eye level and sticks his finger in the door. Flint hears a small, pitiful meow, and a faint smile tugs at Silver’s mouth. He doesn’t look up when he says, “My ex.”

“Er, what?”

“I just missed my ex-girlfriend. Madi and I are no longer together.” Now Silver looks at Flint clearly amused.

“Oh, right,” Flint says, feeling awkward and hating himself for it. “Well, you have your cat. I should be getting back to it,” he says, gesturing back to his mostly unpacked groceries. The ones Silver definitely can’t see.

“Sure,” Silver says easily. “I’ll let you go.” Flint nods and is about to turn in before Silver says, “Nice to finally meet you, James.”

“No,” Flint says sharply.

Silver’s smile fades. “Not nice to finally meet you? Or that’s not your name? You told Madi-”

“No to both. While it is James, you do not get to call me that. And please, make an effort to refrain from playing your music so loud in the evening.”

Flint doesn’t wait for a response and slams the door closed behind him.

That, at least, is satisfying.

-

Later that evening Flint is finishing cooking dinner when there's another knock at the door. Seeing how he's never had any unannounced visitors before the interaction with his neighbor this afternoon, he knows it's going to be John before he gets to the door. A quick look through the peephole confirms this.

Flint sighs deeply and opens the door to find Silver looking slightly on edge. “Oh, hi,” he says, as if he hadn't intended for Flint to answer.

“What do you want?” Flint asks.

Silver winces and lets out a nervous huff of laughter. “You know the cat,” he begins. Flint's face is unmoving. Of course he knows the fucking cat. He nods slowly. “Well, I seem to have lost her.”

“What?” Flint demands. _How in the fuck-_ “How in the fuck do you lose a cat?”

Silver shrugs, annoyance flashing in his eyes. “Fairly easily it seems.” Flint waits for him to continue and raises an eyebrow when he doesn't. Silver rolls his eyes. This time he isn't sure if the annoyance is toward Flint or the cat. "Well, I was wondering if you wouldn't mind coming over to help me look for her."

"Don't you have friends that can help you do this?"

Silver glares. " _Yes,_ I have friends, but they're obviously less convenient than the man who is literally right next door to me." He notices the way Silver clenches his jaw, chin sticking out slightly, as if daring Flint to challenge him on this.

Flint holds his gaze, but wavers, turning back to look at the oven. "It shouldn't take too long to find her," Silver adds softer this time. "Two heads, and all that business." Flint might say Silver was pleading with him. Maybe if he knew the man better.

He considers the oven once more, the chicken still needs time to cook. Besides, how long can it take to find a cat in one of these flats? Flint sighs. "Alright, fine. Lead the way."

-

It takes entirely too long to find the goddamn cat.

They spend a half hour searching the living room and the bedroom of Silver’s sparse flat. Flint feels like an idiot checking under the couch and its respective pillows, in the closet, and under the bed. He feels more ridiculous when he finds himself looking shortly after Silver has looked.

"No luck?" Silver asks after emerging from his bedroom a third time.

Flint huffs and shakes his head no. "The cat's bound to turn up. They can't just disappear."

Silver raises his eyebrows in a challenge. "Maybe I've got a magic cat."

"Maybe you're an idiot."

"Yeah, thanks. That’s helpful," Silver says as they both move further into the flat. Flint can hear the eye roll even if he can't see it. He's following behind Silver who is scrutinizing the floor as if the cat has materialized into the floorboards.

When they enter the small dining room there are still a couple of boxes in the middle of being unpacked, it seems. Silver goes to those first. He kneels down awkwardly, and begins rifling through the box. Flint, for whatever reason, finds that he can’t look away from him.

Flint has his hand on the door of a pantry, but he stops. The sight of Silver pushing his hair out of his face is disarmingly attractive. His t-shirt is probably too tight and while his physique doesn’t match the overly athletic one Flint had conjured up, Silver is still lean and muscular. Which is far more in the realm of Flint’s interests.

"Go ahead and look if you want," Silver says with a smirk.

Flint’s ears burn having been caught, but then he notices Silver is pointing behind Flint at the pantry. "Right."

Silver gives him a questioning look, but smiles slyly. Flint resists the urge to punch _something._ Instead he opens the pantry to find that it is small and sparse, filled mostly with ramen and other instant meal options. It looks like the contents of a university student’s pantry. Silver’s not that young, is he? "For Christ's sake."

"Did you find her?"

" _No,_ but the contents of your pantry is appalling. Are you still in university?"

Silver stands, looking far too cocky for a man that doesn’t even have a can of vegetables in his pantry. "Those days have come and gone. I just enjoy the ease and simplicity of instant noodles.”

Flint sighs, but follows Silver into the kitchen. "How did you even lose the cat? Have you been looking for her since you returned to your flat?"

Silver grimaces. "Not all of that time, no. At first she stayed in her crate, so I let her be while I was doing things. Then I forgot I had a cat and she got a bit underfoot. I tripped and she darted off," he finishes looking far more embarrassed than need be as he gazes at the ground. Some hair falls into his face again, and Flint resolutely does not take note of how nice Silver’s hand looks when tucking it back into place.

Flint is about to say something about the cat, or quite possibly the hair, but Silver’s nose wrinkles in displeasure. "Do you smell that?"

Flint sniffs at the air as Silver moves hurriedly toward the oven and opens it, visibly relieved that he didn't accidentally cook his cat.

"How would she have even- Oh fuck." That would be the pesto stuffed chicken breasts Flint was cooking.

-  
His chicken is in fact charred to a crisp—another strike against John Silver. Flint takes it out of the oven and puts the whole mess in the sink so it can cool off before going into the trash. He sighs deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose.

At this point all Flint wants to do is go to bed. Salvage the rest of his Sunday before anything else can happen, but in a moment of weakness, he promised he'd come back to Silver’s after he took care of the remains of his burnt dinner.

"Let me buy you dinner," Silver said, that wide, possibly fake smile spread across his face. "For all you've done today."

"I'd rather you didn't."

"Come on, it's the least I could do."

"No, " he said simply, valiantly.

"What? Is that too chummy for you?" Silver had laughed. A vein at Flint's temple pulsed.

" _No,_ " Flint insisted.

Frankly, he wasn't sure how much more of Silver he could take in one day, but it seemed rude to just say that, even for Flint. “It's just that we didn't even find your damned cat."

Silver shrugged. "She can't just disappear,” he said echoing Flint’s earlier comment.

Then he looked at Flint expectantly, to which Flint could only sigh. "Will that shut you up?”

"Oh, most definitely. Can't talk with a mouth full of food." The grin grew wider.

And that is how Flint finds himself sitting on the couch in his neighbor’s flat eating curry. It's also how he discovers John Silver is a liar.

While their dinner is awkward at first, with Flint sitting stiffly on his end of the couch and Silver tucked away in his own corner, Silver seems incapable of shutting the fuck up. Instead, he spends most of their dinner talking animatedly between, and during, most of his bites.

Flint isn’t sure if it’s normal, or just the nerves of meeting someone new, but Silver fills any and all silence with the sound of his own voice. It’s a nice enough voice, at least. Flint supposes that’s one mark in Silver’s favor.

However, for all his chatting, Silver doesn’t say anything pertinent about his life, just a few stories about his friends and some more interesting tales from the bar he works at.

Silver's in the middle of an animated retelling of a bar fight that occurred a few weeks back when Flint hears something. “Shhh.”

Silver looks scandalized. “Shhh? You can't just-”

Flint rolls his eyes. “I think I heard your cat.”

Silver snaps his mouth closed, curry still held in mid-air, but he listens intently. They both hear a muffled meow coming from somewhere. They hear it again and Silver squints at him.

“But _where_ is it coming from?”

Flint puts his bowl on the coffee table and goes to the ground, but there still isn't any cat. Silver rises from the couch and checks a nearby closet. No cat.

“Come on you little _demon,_ ” Silver says to the ceiling. “Where are you?”

There's a long _mew_ and then the worst scratching noise Flint has ever heard. It's coming from somewhere in his vicinity, he can tell that much. Flint leans towards the end of the couch and finds nothing. There's another scratching noise and he notices the fabric of the couch moves. He taps it and there's another faint meow.

“I think...she's in the couch?” Flint says, unbelieving.

By this time Silver has moved behind Flint. He nudges Flint with his hip. “Tap it again.”

Flint obliges and taps his fingers along the side of the couch. He can feel where the cat is leaning against the fabric, pulling it taut. There’s another meow and then a few seconds later the cat is slowly clawing her way out from under the couch.

Silver laughs, a low, pleasing sound. “I can't believe it.”

The cat trills, tail quivering, before she paws over to where Flint is sitting on the floor and rubs her face against his knee. Gently, he reaches out to pet her head. The cat is primarily grey with a patch of white that rings her eye and trails across the bridge of her nose. There’s another splotch of white above where her right eye would be.

“I can't fucking believe it,” Silver repeats, and Flint turns so he can properly look up at Silver who is smiling brightly at him once again. Flint can’t help but smile back at him.

The cat lets out a huffy meow, wanting the attention back, and knocks her small head against Flint's chest. He pats her again, not exactly sure what to do. “Uh... hello, you.”

She blinks her one eye at Flint slowly and yawns in his face before rubbing her head against his beard. “Does she have a name?”

Flint notices Silver is no longer behind him. Instead he's sitting back down on the couch and has returned to his curry. He looks minutely more calm now that the cat has been found. Silver takes a bite before answering. “Her name’s Walrus.”

“You named your cat Walrus?” he asks incredulously. Flint looks down at the cat in his lap. “You named this small creature Walrus?”

Silver shrugs as if that’s answer enough. The cat—Flint isn’t sure he can actually call her _Walrus_ —out from his lap and makes her way to the couch. She jumps easily onto the cushions and makes her way over to Silver. He watches her with a fond expression as she attempts to pull the bowl down to her level.

Silver bats her away with his fork. “Not for cats.”

However, Walrus is not discouraged and tries again. When Silver doesn’t give in she settles on rubbing her head against the hand holding the bowl. It’s a sweet scene that does strange things to the soft parts of Flint’s heart. He’s not sure what to make of that.

Now that the cat’s been found and food has been had, Flint finally makes his excuses to leave. Silver tells him to leave his bowl on the table and thanks him again for the help.

When Flint gets up to leave the cat hops off and follows him to the door. Silver gets up in an effort to corral the cat away from the door.

“Good night, neighbor,” Silver says with a grin and mock salute.

Flint offers a curt nod as he slips through the door. On the other side he can still hear Silver talking to the cat. “Now what to do with you, Walrus?”

Flint shakes his head and goes home.


	2. Chapter 2

Two weeks pass since the cat incident and Flint hasn’t properly laid eyes on his neighbor. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t care. He wants to at least run into him, thinking that might help get Silver’s face out of his mind. There’s a chance he isn’t as attractive as Flint is remembering him, and there’s no need for him to be, what? Lusting after his neighbor after one meeting?

Not only is Flint annoyed by the memory he has of Silver (eyes bright and grin wide), he’s annoyed by how much he pays attention to Silver’s comings and goings.

Flint went three months hardly knowing that his next door neighbor existed except when he was a nuisance, but now that he's actually met John Silver it seems that he's become highly attuned to his presence. He's not sure if he's intentionally keeping track of Silver, or if it's subconscious. Like learning a new word and suddenly finding the word everywhere.

Frankly, he’s disappointed in himself.

Today isn’t any better. When Flint approaches the main entrance to the flat he scans the windows and notices Walrus sitting in the window sunning herself. It’s become somewhat of a habit since the first time Flint discovered her in the window.

He goes up the stairs to the third floor and hears Walrus crying on the other side of Silver’s door. Flint shakes his head and enters his own flat. It’s a Tuesday, so he’s gathered that Silver is working during the day as opposed to the evening at the bar. He also knows that in a short time Walrus will start crying again because her owner will be home.

The time passes and Flint is right. The crying starts up again just before he hears the sound of Silver’s keys unlocking the door. Walrus stops and Flint can hear the faint sound of Silver greeting the cat and asking her how her day was. Flint thinks he’s an idiot, of course, but he can’t help listening until the one-sided conversation comes to an end.

-

The following day at work, Gates greets him with a hot cup of coffee and a pleased look in his eyes. Eleanor is standing close behind him with her hand resting on her hip.

Flint cautiously accepts the coffee. “What is this about?”

“I was chatting with Ms. Guthrie,” Gates begins, “and we were wondering about your neighbor. How is he? You haven’t mentioned him in a couple of weeks.”

Flint shrugs, taking a sip of his coffee. After their initial meeting, he didn’t particularly feel like walking into school proclaiming that Gates was right and talking to his neighbor had in fact solved all of his problems. And besides, the (mild) change in behavior likely had more to do with the cat than their singular interaction.

“Did you finally kill him?” Eleanor asks, grinning.

“No, I didn’t kill him,” Flint finally says, though that option is still very much on the table.

Gates raises his eyebrows and exchanges a look with Eleanor. “So you talked with him?”

Flint nods, scratching at his beard. When he doesn’t say anything more Gates frowns. “And?”

He’s not sure what to say about John Silver. He has yet to decide how he feels about the man, besides the vague attraction that seems to be festering in his subconscious. He still doesn’t like him, obviously, but Silver seems like less of a nuisance now that Flint has met him.

“He has a one-eyed cat,” Flint offers, as if that’s an accurate enough summary, which he supposes is a good start.

Both Eleanor and Gates look at him with doubtful expressions. “Alright then,” Gates says, drumming his fingers along the table.

-

Flint’s first class isn’t until the third period. It gives him time to organize the day's lessons, check and respond to emails, grade assignments, and meet with the occasional student.

This morning, he hazards a glance at his personal email. The first page of his inbox is all junk, just as he anticipated. Flint begins to go on a satisfying deleting spree, going through pages of unwanted emails, until he gets to one from a few days ago. An email from mhamilton@gmail.com with the subject line: _It’s been too long…_

Flint is surprised by how much he can be affected by one small line of text on a computer screen.

Flint’s stomach twists, out of nerves or shame, as his mouse hovers over the subject line. The sight of her name makes Flint’s chest ache deeply.

After Thomas’ death three years ago, Miranda had left for Paris—taking the last piece of Flint’s heart with her—and began a new chapter of her life. Since then she’s been flourishing. At least she had been the last time they had talked. That was two years ago.

When she first moved away, they wrote letters and talked frequently on the phone or Skype. Miranda had tried her best for the both of them. She was always walking the fine line between reminiscing and moving on during their conversations. Flint had tried too, though not as hard. He missed Thomas so much he ached with it. Without him everything felt incomplete.

Of course, he knew Miranda was feeling the same thing, but grief can make anyone selfish.

Soon, one or two missed phone calls that could easily be covered up by a previous engagement turned into three or four with no excuse. Then Flint became too ashamed to pick up the phone himself. The two, who had once been inseparable, seemed to finally break in a way that Flint thought could never be fixed.

Most recently their only communication has been the occasional card or text on birthdays or for holidays, and it was easy to miss a holiday.

Flint isn’t sure if she has been actively avoiding him too, or if she’s just been busy. But knowing Miranda, it’s more of a response to his own silence.

Now, Flint just feels stuck, staring at the subject line for too long. Before he knows it, Gates is entering their office. He closes the browser with Miranda’s email and starts to gather his own papers. Gates raises an eyebrow at him. “You alright?”

Flint clears his throat before standing. “Of course I am.”

Gates doesn’t seem convinced, but he lets it go anyway. Flint is alright, he’ll just read the email tonight.

-

As if summoning him with his earlier conversation, Flint finally runs into Silver again that evening after work.

Entering the flat complex, Flint quickly spots Silver waiting for the lift. At first he feels the knee-jerk reaction of annoyance he’s developed over the past few months at the thought of Silver’s mere existence, but now it’s tempered by an equally annoying wave of cautious excitement.

When the lift dings, Silver enters and turns, his eyes falling on Flint. “Oh, hey! Come on,” he calls, holding the elevator door open for him.

He had hoped that seeing Silver again would put to rest the growing attraction Flint has actively been avoiding, but of course that is not what happens.

Silver is just as attractive today, if not more attractive, than the day Flint had first met him. Today his hair is pulled up in a loose bun at the nape of his neck making his hair less distracting and his eyes look brighter. Flint notices—thinks he notices, at least—the way Silver tracks his movements as he enters the lift. The idea is not unappealing to Flint.

“Thanks for that.”

Silver’s mouth quirks up in an easy grin. “Not a problem.”

The silence rests between them as the doors slowly close. It isn’t awkward, but it feels as if they’re both trying not to look at each other. When the doors close and the lift lurches upward Silver speaks again. “I can’t believe we’re just now running into each other.”

Flint nods, feeling a bit of relief that Silver had the same thought as he did on the matter. He can see Silver watching him in the distorted reflection of the lift doors and doesn’t know what to make of that.

The lift _dings_ past the second floor. “How is the cat, by the way?”

"Walrus? Oh, she's fine. In fact, you could come and see her. I bet she's tired of seeing my face."

Flint can’t stop himself from thinking, _But it’s such a nice face._ He can feel the heat rising at his neck.

When Flint doesn't actually say anything in return, Silver admits, "She's actually a bit of a shit if I'm being honest."

Flint snorts. "Good. It's what you deserve."

"Oh, and why's that?" Silver asks, eyebrows raised.

Flint lets out a bark of a laugh. "Because you have been an absolute menace since you moved in." He grins sharply—his shark’s-grin as Eleanor has dubbed it—at Silver, but the man looks far too pleased by this, which only annoys Flint more.

"Since you’ve moved in it feels like I can barely go a few days, let alone a full week, without some sort of disruption from you. With your burnt food and loud terrible music at all hours..." Flint trails off in a huff. They've reached the third floor.

When he looks at Silver, he expects the man to appear mildly abashed, but instead he looks amused. "How old are you, exactly?" he asks, motioning for Flint to exit first. Flint goes, begrudgingly. "Next you'll be telling me to stay off your lawn."

Flint scoffs. "I'm not old." Though he feels like this conversation is actively aging him. "I'm just mature enough to know what it means to be a considerate neighbor," he says pointedly.

"But not mature enough to come over and talk to me?" Silver challenges.

He's about to counter, but they've reached their respective doors now and the fight has more or less eased out of Flint. Silver seems to realize and looks pleased. It's a softer look this time.

"Oh, shut up," Flint says, but there's no heat in it.

Silver chuckles. Neither of them make a move to open their doors. Flint isn't sure what Silver’s waiting for and he sure as hell doesn’t know what he’s waiting for. Flint’s just about to open his door when Silver finally says, "Really, though, you should come over. Walrus would love it."

Flint laughs. "You do realize she's not actually a child?"

"Oh really? Hadn’t noticed." Silver crosses his arms.

"For what it’s worth, I wouldn't mind it either," he adds, actually managing to sound sincere, but then he ruins it by doing something ridiculous with his eyebrows.

Flint's face feels regrettably warm, given how idiotic Silver actually looks. (He hopes he's not actually blushing.)

It would be easy to say yes, no one could blame him for chatting with his neighbor, but... "I have assignments to grade, sorry" is what comes out instead—cool, clipped, and indifferent. Flint is rather proud.

Silver nods his head, seemingly undeterred. “Maybe another time, then?”

“Another time,” Flint agrees and Silver smiles.

Walrus is still whining on the other side of the door. Silver gives him an apologetic look before unlocking the door and shoving his foot in to keep Walrus at bay. Flint rolls his eyes at the scene. When Silver’s door clicks, Flint lets his head fall against his own door with a soft _thump_ before going inside.

-

The work week comes to a close and Flint feels as though he has whiplash, it’s gone so fast. There are still papers to be graded, but Flint thinks maybe he deserves a break and a glass of wine. It is Friday after all, and he’s practically gone cross-eyed with all of the grading he’s done this week.

From where he’s standing, pouring his glass of wine in the kitchen, he can see his laptop sitting on the coffee table. It seems to stare at him accusingly for not yet reading Miranda’s email.

Flint finishes half of the freshly poured wine in one gulp.

He should read it. Right now. It’s a note from _Miranda,_ for Christ’s sake. Things were easy with Miranda once, but that was with Thomas. There were easy, beautiful years between the three of them; years that seemed like they would never end. But without Thomas, how could just the two of them have any more beautiful years?

If Flint doesn’t open the email, nothing changes. Miranda is still in Paris, living happily and successfully. Flint can think of her making new, happy memories of her own. Without this email, he doesn’t know if she still loves him and he doesn’t know if she hates him.

For once in his life, the unknown almost feels like a luxury.

He finishes his glass of wine and carefully pours himself another.

What if he reads the email and Miranda confirms for once and for all that she wants nothing to do with him? Miranda would be lost to him forever, and Flint could not bear that.

Flint has another sip of wine, then looks into the glass, hoping it might be able to offer _something._ But he only finds a deep, empty red.

“Fuck,” he says to the cup, loudly and emphatically, but not at all satisfying.

When he’s finally able to motivate himself, after finishing the rest of his useless wine, Flint makes his way to the couch and his laptop.

Flint dutifully watches the loading circle on his screen spin round and round as his laptop boots up.

On this side of the flat, the wall he shares with Silver, he can hear the muffled sounds of Walrus meowing and isn’t sure if Silver will be coming or going at this hour. Not that he cares, obviously.

The cat continues to meow and the circle continues to spin, so Flint decides to take a shower. A little more time won’t hurt.

After his shower—ten minutes standing in scalding hot water—Flint is back where he started. This time equipped with a cup of mint tea with honey. His laptop has gone into sleep mode, but with a touch of the mousepad he’s back up and running.

He opens his email and clears out the latest round of spam and there it is, waiting for him. So finally, he reads it.

> _Dear James,_
> 
> _How have we gone two years without speaking to one another? What an impossible and terrible feat._
> 
> _I’m not interested in any excuses, as we both have our fair share of them, and I’m not saying things should go back to normal. I don’t think they can, but maybe that’s okay._
> 
> _Right now, I want you to know that I miss you, and I hope you miss me, too._
> 
> _Think of this email as a white flag, an invitation to reach out if you so chose. (And James, I really hope you do.)_
> 
> _Sending all of my love,_
> 
> _Miranda_
> 
> _P.S. The number is still the same. I would love to hear your voice._

For all of the waiting and worrying, once Flint reads the email, his world does not end. In fact, it seems to tilt ever so slightly toward something brighter and happier.

He’ll still have to respond, of course, but for now, this is enough. Flint reads the email again and again, falling asleep on the couch with Miranda’s words in his thoughts.

-

Flint isn't sure how long he sleeps before he's woken by a loud, scratching sound coming from somewhere in, or around, his flat. Flint rubs his eyes, the clock reads half-past midnight. His laptop, now dark, is still sitting in his lap, though slightly askew. His back will not thank him for this in the morning.

He thinks maybe the noise was a one-off, but then the scratching sounds again. This time Flint can clearly tell it’s coming from the back of the flat. He can also hear Walrus whining, louder and more insistent than normal. Flint sighs and gets up from the couch, placing the laptop on the coffee table.  
He's positive the sound is coming from _outside_ the flat, not inside Silver’s, so he stands up, still groggy and walks towards his kitchen.

“No...” he begins. “Can’t be.”

At first Flint thinks he’s dreaming because what he sees is the outline of a cat sitting outside of his window.

One more strike against John fucking Silver.

When he walks further into the kitchen he confirms it can be. Walrus is outside on his landing, and when she notices him, quickly starts to pace back and forth. He approaches the window cautiously, not wanting to spook her, and slowly opens it.

She lets out a high whine before darting into his flat. Flint turns quickly on his feet and watches as she disappears down the hall.

“You've got to be kidding me,” he says, the end catching on a yawn. He attempts to find the cat, though half heartedly. When he can’t find her immediately he exits his flat and walks over to Silver’s door. He knocks once without getting a response. Then he tries again, but assumes Silver’s out, either for work or pleasure.

When he opens the door again to his own place Walrus is nowhere in sight and he finds that he's presently too tired to give a fuck about her whereabouts. Flint yawns again and trudges to his bedroom. He scans the room once, hoping to find the small cat, but he has no such luck. At least he knows she’s in here somewhere and, hopefully, can’t escape his flat.

Sleep comes easily, but it does not stay. Not when his temporary roommate seems to become very comfortable in his flat. At some point in the wee hours of the morning, she begins to run from one room to the next at full speed, back and forth until she gets tired. Then she comes to sit on the floor next to his bed and yell at him.

Flint waves a hand in the direction of the sound and Walrus presses her head into his touch. He adjusts his face on the pillow to look down at her with sleep filled eyes. “Are you looking for an invitation?”

Walrus whines.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he says, and scoops the cat gently up and onto the bed. Flint flips over to his back and watches as the cat gets comfortable. Each step is hesitant, as if she’s traversing new lands. Which, he guesses she is. Every few steps Walrus turns to him and whines.

When she finally curls along his thigh she blinks slowly at Flint and lets out another meow, the sound tapering off into a wide-mouthed yawn. Then she rests her head on her paws and lets her eye close. Not long after, Flint drifts again.

-

When Flint wakes for the third time that night, he discovers that it’s no longer night at all. In fact, it’s six in the morning on a Saturday and someone is knocking on his fucking door. He shifts and something warm and soft on his chest trills.

“Good morning to you, too,” he says. Walrus rubs her face against his beard. Now that he’s aware, Flint is amazed at how much warmth such a small creature can give off.

The knocking continues. “ _Fuck._ ”

Flint shifts again, but Walrus refuses to move. “Fine, then you’re coming with me.” He wraps his arm around the cat, setting her down briefly to put on a robe, and then carries her as he walks through the flat.

“What?” he demands as he opens the door. Standing on the opposite side is John Silver, hand raised mid-knock, face shifting from panic to a small, impish grin. Silver’s eyes skirt over Flint quickly, and then it seems like he doesn’t know where to look.

James is in pajamas—boxers, and an old university t-shirt Thomas used to wear—which feels reasonable given the hour. The paisley robe (a gag gift from Miranda many years ago), might be what pushes him over to the foolish side.

Silver clears his throat bringing Flint’s attention back to him. “Uh, sorry. I couldn’t find Walrus and it seems like you’re usually up around this time, so I thought I’d check if you’d seen her.” Silver pushes a hand through his hair. He shifts uncomfortably and Flint wonders if it’s from the situation or from the prosthetic he spotted during their first meeting. “However, it seems like you’ve found her.”

Walrus, for her part, is like a tiny motor in Flint’s arms purring contentedly. “Do you want some tea?”

The question seems to take Silver by surprise. “Don’t you have work?”

“It’s Saturday.”

Silver lets out a huff of a laugh. “Fuck, is it really?”

Flint rolls his eyes and turns back towards the kitchen hoping Silver will see it as the invitation it is. After all, he is still holding the man’s cat.

“I guess I’ll take that cup of tea, then,” Silver says even though he’s already followed after Flint.

Having Silver in his flat this early in the morning, so soon after waking up is too much. Flint isn’t sure why he suggested it. He could’ve just handed back the cat, sent Silver on his way, and gone back to sleep. Now Silver is standing in the center of the living room looking a bit lost, and Flint isn’t sure what to do with him.

Silver looks a bit uncomfortable himself, standing in Flint’s living room. He turns, scanning Flint’s shelves, eyes landing on one of the few personal photographs Flint has on display. It’s a picture of himself with Miranda and Thomas, their three faces pressed together in order to fit in the frame.

Flint doesn’t remember the last time he looked at that picture. The three had gone on a beach outing maybe ten years ago. They were much younger then, happier. While he hasn’t looked at the photo in ages, Flint remembers every detail of the day.

Flint is about to start working on the tea, deciding that’s more productive than dwelling on the past, when Walrus makes a noise, as if she had just now woke and realized that her owner was in the room. Flint lets her drop to the ground. She lands gracefully, as cats do, and trots towards Silver.

“You can sit,” Flint says, clearing his throat. Silver startles slightly but sits, seeming relieved. Flint watches his movements, notes the way he sags into the left side of the couch—Flint’s preferred side. The observation, for whatever reason, pleases Flint.

When Walrus approaches him, Silver puts his hand down for her to rub against. Walrus does as expected, her tail shaking as if she’s vibrating.

“Does she do that often?” Flint asks. He remembers her doing that the first night they had all met.

“She does,” Silver agrees.

“Is that a common thing? For cats?”

“Hell if I know.” Silver laughs. “If I’m being honest, I actually don’t really know anything about them.”

That makes Flint snort. “Then why get one?”

“An excellent question,” Silver says, focusing his attention on Walrus, who has now jumped onto the couch to lay next to her owner. “Madi thought it would be a good idea. Get a one-eyed cat for a one-legged man to help him _cope._ ” The last word is loaded with much sarcasm.

It’s the first time Flint has heard Silver sound anything but obnoxiously chipper and Flint doesn’t know how to respond.

“I’m sure she meant well,” Flint hazards as he approaches with their two cups of tea.

“Of course,” Silver agrees easily.

“You could ask about it, if you want,” he adds, quietly.

It’s not what Flint is expecting Silver to say, but it’s the flash of vulnerability in Silver’s eyes that really takes Flint off guard.

He had noticed the metal prosthetic the first night they met, but it obviously wasn’t the time to comment on it. He isn’t sure now is the time to ask about it either, but Silver’s invitation this morning feels a bit like a test.

“Do you want to tell me?”

Apparently it’s the right answer because the corner of Silver’s mouth twitches up in the faintest example of a smile. “Not particularly,” he says, taking one of the cups of tea from Flint. Their fingers brush briefly during the exchange and Flint blames the flutter of his stomach on the overall odd nature of this morning.

Flint clears his throat a little awkwardly, then carefully says, “Another time, maybe.”

At that, Silver’s entire demeanor seems to shift back into the usual charmer’s look and posture. “Maybe,” he agrees with a wry grin.

Flint nods and finds that he might actually like that, getting to learn more about Silver.

With that thought Flint moves toward the other arm chair he has in the living room. He’s not sure he can handle such close proximity to Silver this early in the morning. From this distance Flint allows himself to look at Silver’s face. It’s a young, attractive face—objectively nice to look at, he thinks. Just a casual observation.

Walrus gets up from her spot along Silver’s side, crawls into his lap, and lays back down. This at least makes Silver smile brightly. “Where’d you find her?” he asks.

“She was on the window sill. In the kitchen,” he clarifies.

“Ah, that explains it. You’re a brave, possibly stupid, little imp,” Silver says to the cat while he pets her affectionately. Walrus whines up at him and bats at his hand. Then Silver turns his attention back to Flint. “It seems she escaped from my kitchen window and jumped over to yours.

“I usually close it before I leave for work—a bar most evenings, I think I mentioned before—but last night I was running late and just forgot it. Though, I thought it was closed enough she couldn’t get through. Apparently I was wrong. Little Houdini cat.” He emphasizes this by poking Walrus in the stomach. She bites him affectionately.

Flint continues to watch, notices the way Silver holds himself tightly, unwilling to fully relax into the couch. He looks particularly tired this morning, too. “Have you gotten any sleep at all?”

Silver finishes the drink he was taking and then grimaces. “Only a couple of hours. I fell asleep when I got home, but woke up when I realized there was no cat pestering me.”

“She is quite an active little shit,” Flint agrees.

Silver smiles as he puts down the teacup. “Well, I guess I should be heading out,” Silver says, pulling Walrus to his chest before standing up from the couch. “Let you get on with the rest of your morning.”

Not for the first time this morning, Silver sounds almost soft and sincere. This whole morning with Silver and the cat has been surprisingly sweet and Flint manages to forget how annoying John Silver can be.

“Of course,” Flint begins, getting up off the chair. It’s only then that he remembers he’s still in his boxers and t-shirt, his paisley robe hanging open. He can feel Silver’s eyes on him, watching him closely, and once again, hopes he’s not actually blushing.

“I’ll at least walk you to the door,” Flint manages to get out with a level voice.

Silver seems to grin as if he’s won something when he stands in front of Flint at the door. “The bathrobe is an excellent look, by the way. Just missing a pipe and you could be in a 70’s porno,” he says and exits without waiting for a reaction.

And just like that, Flint remembers how annoying he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to everyone who has already left kudos and comments!! <3 you can find me over at [tumblr](https://disastershy.tumblr.com/), where i occasionally yell about this fic


	3. Chapter 3

Flint and Gates are having lunch in their shared office one afternoon for the first time in a few weeks. Gates is munching happily on the sandwich he brought in for himself, and speaking animatedly about... something? A student, maybe? Flint isn’t sure.

Instead, he’s poking at his meager salad and thinking about Miranda’s email. It’s been nearly a week and he still hasn’t reached out to her.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise when a crumpled napkin hits him in the side of his face, but Flint startles all the same.

When he turns his attention to Gates, the man is looking at him with his eyebrows raised in question.

“Sorry,” Flint says, picking the napkin up off the floor. “Wasn’t paying attention.”

“Aye, no shit,” Gates says good-naturedly, but then his tone turns serious. “Really, though, are you doing okay? You’ve been distracted lately. Is it something with your neighbor?”

Flint scoffs loudly. “Absolutely not.” It’s true enough. Since their interaction on Saturday morning, Flint has only thought, once or twice, about what it might be like to get to know Silver. But that was nothing worth reporting.

“I’m fine. I promise,” he says, forcing a smile as he takes a bite of his salad. Flint hopes it’s enough to put an end to the conversation.

Gates, of course, ignores him. Then he asks quietly, “Is it something to do with Miranda?”

This takes Flint by surprise, though it shouldn’t. It’s just that sometimes he forgets that Hal Gates knows about Miranda; forgets that he told him about the Hamiltons within the first couple of months of starting his position at the school. They went out for drinks, the way one does in a new job, to get to know one another. Flint had been miserable, still reeling from Miranda’s absence and dealing with the fresh wave of grief over Thomas’ death that her departure churned up.

Flint thought he played along well enough, chatting about the easy stuff (where’d you go to school, are you local, what’s your worst student story) but then Gates asked him if he was the James McGraw that was involved in the Hamilton scandal a year or so ago. And it was true, mostly.

In the few short months Flint had spent sharing an office with Gates, he determined the man was honest enough. He couldn’t see Gates inquiring out of some hope for personal gain. And besides, Thomas was _dead,_ there wasn’t much more someone could do to hurt him. So, at the end of a long night of alcohol consumption, Flint had offered him confirmation to the partial truth.

Yes, he knew the Hamiltons. Yes, he had an affair with Mrs. Hamilton. Yes, he lived with them for years in a way that could be deemed unconventional. Yes, it all happened while he was working as a professor at Cambridge. It was all the info that had been covered in a variety of news articles.

The media had gotten it wrong, of course.

 _London Council member, Thomas Hamilton, involved in taboo love triangle with wife and a close confidante,_ a headline had read when everything was first unfolding.

His relationship with the Hamilton’s had been misinterpreted, two-fold. To the outside world, he and Thomas were both having relations with Miranda. That in itself was scandalous enough to wreak havoc on their lives. The other version of the story, the one that was bad enough to stay behind the closed doors of political offices, the one that couldn’t be leaked to the public, was that Thomas and James had been the ones to have an affair and Miranda was just a cover up, and had been all along.

In reality, both versions were simultaneously true and false.

Where the press got it wrong, however, was that James loved both of the Hamilton’s, and they loved him in return. They lived together, slept together, made love together, did everything together.

They were a _family._

And as a family they nearly got through it. James had resigned from his teaching position and Thomas had stepped down as council member. He and Miranda played the role of a completely monogamous, respectable couple, and James moved out of their house. It wasn’t easy, but in the name of laying low and avoiding scrutiny, it was worth it.

James had even changed his surname. He planned on finding a new job, but the Hamiltons insisted he take the gap year. It would be easier to plan their new life together, find a new city to live in, make a new home together.

James really thought they could have made it. And then Thomas died.

After everything, it was a brain aneurysm that took Thomas away from them. In the end, Thomas’ burial was the last new thing they would ever have together.

Flint didn’t get into all of that with Gates that night. No amount of alcohol would make him give up that information freely. The true parts of their relationship, Flint liked to keep to himself. So Flint let Gates believe that he and Miranda had been together before and after Thomas’ death, up until they “split.”

When he asked Gates how he knew James had once been McGraw he simply said, “I pay attention. Plus, after your first interview, Eleanor mentioned you were much too qualified for a position at our small-town secondary.”

At that, the two broke down into drunken, boisterous laughter. When they finally settled down, Gates had promised he’d keep the findings to himself and avert any suspicions if it ever came up. After that, the two stayed close, not out of obligation, but out of true friendship. Something Flint hadn’t had in awhile.

It’s Gates’ voice that brings Flint back to the present. “Well, is it her?”

Flint nods, a short, curt motion. He suddenly feels exhausted.

“I say this as your friend,” Gates begins cautiously. “I think it’s probably best you get over yourself and speak with her.”

Flint laughs dryly at that. Gates makes it sound so easy. In fact, he had thought it would be easy once he read the email and saw that Miranda did still want to speak with him.

Over the weekend and into the school week, Flint had gone into his phone a countless number of times, scrolled down to Miranda’s number, and then thought better of it. There were half composed texts and drafts of emails sitting in his trash that just didn’t seem good enough after two years of silence.

However, he doesn’t feel like getting into that at the moment. “I think you’re right,” he says instead.

“Of course I am,” his friend says cheekily, then he sighs. “Between you and Eleanor, I can’t keep up with either of your moods or distractions.”

This intrigues Flint enough that he’s momentarily distracted from the spiral of bad thoughts he knows is waiting for him.

“Is something wrong with Eleanor?”

Gates sighs. “You really have been distracted.” Flint rolls his eyes, waiting for Gates to continue.

“She hasn’t said anything in particular, but she’s been a bit of a bear the past week. You really hadn’t noticed?”

Flint shakes his head.

“Hmm. Well, maybe you could speak to her about it? She always seems more receptive when you talk to her.”

Flint huffs out a laugh, he doesn’t entirely believe that, but makes a mental note to ask her about it at their regular end of the month lunch, if he doesn’t speak to her before then.  
-

The rest of Flint’s day is annoying and tedious, between an obnoxious couple of students being rude during one of his classes, and bus delays. That, paired with his earlier conversation with Gates, means Flint is ready to get home, make dinner, and go to bed.

When he gets off the bus, though, he’s pleasantly surprised to find it’s actually a lovely evening. The blossoms on the trees are finally opening with the warming spring weather, and the light breeze carries the sweet fragrance with him as he walks home. It’s enough to make him feel a fraction less murderous. By the time Flint reaches his block, he feels nearly calmed. _Robby Wenscombe, who? Delayed bus, when?_

In fact, Flint’s mood has improved enough that he even smiles to himself at the thought of the brand new bottle of red wine in his bag—an indulgence compared to his usual store brand bottle. Maybe the day won’t be such a wash if the rest of his evening is at least pleasant.

But then, as he gets nearer to home, he notices Silver sitting on the stoop. His legs are stretched out in front of him with a purple suitcase between them.

Flint pauses in his walk, right behind a bush he thinks should offer him enough coverage. Silver can’t have seen him yet. He briefly imagines himself turning in the other direction and protecting his newly buoyant mood from the possible rage Silver is likely to induce.

Then Silver lifts a hand up in greeting.

“Damn it,” Flint groans, but steps out from behind the bush and waves, making his way toward the flat.

When he gets to the entrance, Silver is just hanging up his cell phone. “Howdy, neighbor,” he says to Flint, but there’s no large smile or enthusiasm with it.

Flint feels a little let down, if he’s being honest. In the short time it took to get from his hiding place to the stoop, Flint had prepared himself to deal with whatever ridiculousness Silver was going to throw at him.

However, he wasn't prepared for this, seemingly sad, Silver. He’s not sure how to acknowledge it; they’re not friends after all. Instead he just points at the slightly worn-looking suitcase. “Are you leaving on a trip?”

“Ah, yes. Bahamas.”

Flint looks at Silver suspiciously. “You’re leaving today? The cat’s not in there, is she?”

“No cat in here,” Silver laughs. “And I leave at the end of the week. Just picked up the suitcase from a friend.”

Flint eyes the case dubiously. He absolutely wouldn’t put it past Silver to at least try smuggling a cat in that thing.

“For how long?” he asks.

“About a week.”  
“Okay,” Flint starts. Then he wonders. “So, what are you going to do with the cat?”

Silver just shrugs and squints up at Flint. He’s smiling now. “Well, cats are pretty resilient, right? I thought I’d just leave bowls of food and water around the flat.”

And here’s the ridiculousness Flint was prepared for.

“Are you serious?”

The confident smile Silver had been wearing droops at the corners. “Yes? Er, no?”

Flint exhales deeply and pinches the bridge of his nose. It feels like all he does is sigh in varying degrees of exasperation when he’s around Silver.

“You know, that’s not actually how cats work? Maybe for a weekend, but not a _whole_ week.”

Silver looks mildly taken back, as if he truly hadn’t considered this. Flint can see him trying to figure out how exactly to proceed next. “Well, I’ll be there with Madi, so that rules her out.”

Flint’s frown deepens slightly at that news. It’s none of his business, but he can’t help the disappointment sinking in his stomach. Silver doesn't seem to notice. He’s tapping his fingers against the suitcase, thinking. “Maybe one of—“

“I could look after her,” Flint blurts out. “If you’d like?” he adds, feeling a rush of self-consciousness.

Silver looks up at him as if he hung the moon or saved his fucking cat from a burning building. “Would you, really?”

Flint nods, already regretting his offer.

“It shouldn’t take too much of your time. Just check in on her a few days out of the week. Make sure she’s alive.”

“Well, if you’ve managed it these past few weeks, I think that’s well within my capabilities.”

“Funny,” Silver deadpans. Then he seems to hesitate before asking, “You’re sure you wouldn’t mind, or be too busy?”

“It may surprise you to know, but the life of a school teacher isn’t exactly bustling.”

“Of course,” Silver agrees, lightly. He’s still looking up at Flint, now, with a warm, pleased look.

“Right then,” Flint trails off, feeling awkward where he’s standing. His bag, full of papers and wine, feels too heavy on his shoulder. He shifts from side to side, finally about to leave when he notices a small white flower in one of Silver’s curls.

“You’ve got something...” Flint begins, gesturing to the side of Silver’s head where the flower is. Silver looks at him quizzically and makes a show of touching the opposite side of his head, then looks down at his shirt, likely trying to find a stain.

“No,” Flint says, frustratedly, then leans forward and plucks the offending bloom out of Silver’s hair. “A flower.”

Silver gives him a soft, complicated look that Flint doesn’t know what to make of. “Thank you,” he says, and reaches up to take the flower. Flint assumes he’ll just let the next breeze take it, but Silver holds it gently between his fingers, like it’s something important.

There’s a funny twisting in Flint’s stomach that he absolutely was not prepared to deal with today.

He’s saved from having to say anything more when Silver gestures to his cell phone. “Well, I have another call to make. I’ll drop the key off some time before I leave. I’ll see you?”

“It’s a plan.”

With that, Flint makes his escape.

-

Flint isn’t sure why, but that night feels like the right time to finally call Miranda.

Maybe it’s the way the night air, spilling in from his window, carrying the scent of blooming flowers, reminds him of a particular night in Thomas and Miranda’s house. He can remember sitting between the two of them on the sofa. Miranda with her feet resting in his lap, and Thomas, sitting besides him, holding onto James’ hand. It was spring, then, too, but earlier in the season. Miranda had commented on how lovely it was to have the windows open after a long winter. The plum tree in front of the house was in full bloom, and soon, their front lawn would be littered with beautiful white blossoms.

Blossoms like the ones starting to cover the pavement outside Flint’s flat; like the one he pulled out of Silver’s hair earlier today.

Whatever it is, the decision to call Miranda isn’t fueled by guilt or shame, or even the glass of quality wine he’s already consumed. Tonight, Flint realizes, above all else, he misses his friend.

So, despite the anxiety gnawing at his stomach, Flint does what he should’ve done days ago and calls Miranda.

It’s not until after the phone has been ringing for a few seconds that Flint remembers the slight time difference between London and Paris, that it’s nearing 10 p.m. there, and he doesn’t want to wake her up, or worse, cause her to worry. But then

“Hello? James?”

If Flint had been affected by simply seeing Miranda’s email in his inbox, hearing her voice on the other end of the phone nearly undoes him. He can feel his heart beating in his throat, the oxygen in the room has dissipated, and he’s acutely aware that everything in this moment is so much.

“James?” she repeats, this time sounding more worried. “Is everything okay?”

It takes all of his effort to keep his voice from breaking when he says, “Miranda, hello.” There’s a beat and Flint wonders if maybe he should have waited for a more reasonable time.

“I realize it’s late, I’m sorry, but I just—“

“James, stop. It’s okay, I’m glad you called.” He can hear the smile in her voice. “I haven’t even gotten ready for bed yet.”

He thinks that’s a lie, in fact he’s almost positive he can hear Miranda shuffling in her bed, but he’s pleased for it anyway.

“So, how have you been?” Flint asks. He can’t help the way he sounds stiff and awkward.

Mirand laughs at him. “Two years and that’s all I get?”

Flint feels himself getting defensive, but realizes, despite the sarcasm in her tone, there isn’t any real scorn in Miranda’s words. “Yes, well, I thought you weren’t interested in any excuses.”

There’s a thoughtful silence from Miranda, so he continues. “We need to start somewhere, after all.”

“I’ve missed you, James,” Miranda says, voice sounding watery. “So much. You know that, right?”

“I know,” he says quietly, unable to keep himself from sounding misty. “I’ve missed you, too.”

There’s more they should talk about, feelings they should address head on, but for now they can just talk—catch up on everything they’ve missed the past two years.

Miranda tells him about Paris, what it’s been like living with her distant cousin, about the different art galleries she’s helped curate since they last spoke. At the end of it, it sounds like Miranda has had just as fulfilling of a time as Flint had imagined.

When they get to Flint, he finds there isn’t too much to tell her. He talks about working at the secondary school, about Gates and Eleanor; he mentions an obnoxious neighbor, but doesn’t say anymore about Silver.

They reach a lull in their conversation—they’ve been talking for nearly two hours—when Miranda asks, “Is London the same?” Her tone has an air of forced nonchalance.

Flint laughs, but it’s a sad, bittersweet sound. “It is,” he says, but of course it isn’t. They both know it changed as soon as they lost Thomas.

“I think I’m due for a visit.” Miranda sounds hopeful and the idea of her being near again fills Flint’s chest with warmth.

“I would love that. You’re always welcome to stay with me.”

“Perfect. Something to look forward to.”

As they’re finishing their good-bye’s for the evening, Miranda asks, “We’ll talk again soon?”

“Of course we will.”

Miranda hums into the phone, a satisfied noise. “Thank you for calling, James.”

Then the phone clicks and Flint can rest easy.

-

A few days later, Flint is still enjoying the pleasant mood Miranda’s call has put him in. So much so, that he’s barely annoyed by the too-long and rhythmic knock on his door. He opens it to find Silver on the other side, spinning the spare set of keys around his fingers. He gets one last spin in before handing them over to Flint.

“What is this meant to be?” Flint says, eyeing the black puff attached with rings to the single key.

“A cat,” he says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. It seems Flint’s annoyance might make an appearance after all.

He looks closer at the keychain and notices that, attached to the ball of synthetic fur, is a little piece of plastic that’s meant to be a stylized cat head with a screen-printed face, and another piece on the opposite end that seems to be a tail.

“I saw it on a kiosk while I was getting the key made; thought you’d love it.”

“Of course you did.”

Silver grins. “Anyway, like I said, you won’t have to do much. Just check in, make sure she hasn’t burned the place down.”

“Prevent arson, keep your child alive. Got it.”

“Not an actual child. Though, I don’t mind being a cat dad. That’s kind of cute, right?”

Flint knows when he’s being wound up, so instead of taking the bait, he ignores Silver’s comment completely and asks about the flight. It’s the obvious next step, but mainly, Flint wants to avoid accidentally walking in on Silver when the cat no longer needs tending. He gets the dates—some time next Sunday, returning the Sunday after that—and then Silver’s about to leave, but he stops.

“Oh! We should exchange numbers. Do you have your phone on you?” Flint shakes his head, no. “That’s fine, just let me...” Silver fishes out his phone from the pocket of his pants, aided by an embarrassing wiggle of his hips, and then he starts tapping away. He hands the phone over for Flint to enter his number.

Flint looks at what Silver has already typed, and notices his contact name is “Jim”. He raises his eyebrows at Silver who bats his eyelashes innocently. Flint leaves the name as is and returns to entering his number. He can feel Silver’s eyes on him, observing.

When he looks up again he finds Silver smiling at him fondly.

“Here,” he says gruffly, and hands the phone over. But he doesn’t let go immediately, and Silver doesn’t seem to mind, his smile still present.

Flint wants to tell him that he looks stupid, but truthfully, Flint thinks he might like having Silver’s attention on him. Then he remembers that Silver is actually going on a weeklong vacation—to the Bahamas of all places—with his ex-girlfriend, and that it doesn’t really matter what he thinks of Silver’s attention.

He lets go of the phone and puts his hand in his pockets.

“Right, well,” Silver begins, tapping the phone against his opposite, open hand. “Thanks again.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Silver nods once, but as he turns toward his own flat, Flint catches sight of a small, satisfied smile.

-

Flint has almost forgotten about the earlier exchange until that evening when he gets a new text. He opens it: _It’s your favorite neighbor! :)_

Flint scoffs and puts the phone back down. He’ll save the contact later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> with this chapter, this fic becomes the longest thing I've ever written! the word count isn't crazy yet, but i'm rather pleased (particularly with this chapter). i appreciate everyone that's sticking with this fic and leaving comments and kudos. you're all v motivating. <3 next update will have more cat shenanigans!
> 
> you can find me over at [tumblr](https://disastershy.tumblr.com/), where i occasionally yell about this fic


	4. Chapter 4

The thing is, if Flint had really given this cat-sitting situation any thought, he might’ve realized it would be challenging—it’s Silver’s cat, afterall. But he didn’t think. Like an idiot, he just assumed it would be easy. Out of seven days, check in on the cat three of those days, maybe four, keep some bowls full of food and water, make sure she hasn’t escaped—easy things. Of course, that’s not what happens.

Instead, it’s the second night of Silver’s vacation, and Flint is moving said food and water bowls into his own flat while Walrus supervises from a table next to Silver’s couch.

“How can one small creature require so...much?” Flint asks, carrying a bag with the bowls and a few of the toys he found scattered on the floor.

Walrus yawns.

All in all, it takes three trips to fully move the cat: food and toys, litter box, and finally Walrus.

When Flint deposits her into his flat, Walrus runs down the hall, then sprints back to the front door where Flint is still standing. She briefly steps in place, tail quivering, as she looks up at him.

“What?” Flint says in the voice he saves for his more annoying Year Eight students.

Walrus chatters at him in return, seemingly unimpressed, and then bounds off into the depths of his flat.

Flint pulls out his phone and finds the last text he received from Silver. He still hasn’t saved the contact—the string of numbers is just fine, thank you very much.

_I’ve kidnapped your cat,_ he types out and sends the text off to Silver.

He puts the phone down, then, and busies himself with placing the food and water bowls in the kitchen. When he returns to the living room, Flint refuses to check for a response, but then his phone chimes on the table. It’s a text from Silver: _You...cat-napped my cat?_

The pun is painful, but before Flint gets a chance to let him know, the phone sounds again. This time, three quick texts:

_Are you going to take cat naps???_  
_With my cat-napped cat_

The last one that comes through is a string of smiling cat emojis.

Without any hesitation Flint responds: _I will kill you and feed you to your own cat._

After he sends it, Flint feels a mild rush of regret, worrying that he’s gone too far. Not that he wouldn’t have said the same thing in person.

Luckily, Silver’s quick response puts him out of his misery. _Just send a picture like a normal fucking person._

Flint snorts, but goes off in search of the cat.

To his surprise, he finds Walrus on his bed, pacing in an effort to find the perfect spot. Apparently, the sleepover post-break-in was enough to make her feel comfortable in his flat. When she finally settles at the foot of his bed, Flint approaches slowly and manages to snap a photo of Walrus just before she curls into a ball.

He looks at the photo and is rather pleased with himself for actually catching the cat looking at the camera. He sends it to Silver and then to Miranda with the note: _New house guest._

Flint puts the phone in his back pocket and gingerly pets the cat with the back of his hand. Walrus lifts her head a fraction and lets out a pitifully disgruntled noise in his direction before curling further into herself, squeezing her paw tightly over her small face.

If Flint were the type of man to say, _aww,_ at the sight of kittens, he might’ve done it then.

Of course, Silver is the type of man to do just that. Once Flint has left his bedroom, Silver sends a text, _Aww,_ there she is, with a heart emoji.

Flint can only shake his head.

As he walks through the flat, finally preparing for bed, Flint gets another text from Silver.

_Really tho, why is my cat in your flat?_

Flint thinks for a moment before responding, _She’s very persuasive._

In reality, it’s because she’s a (deviously cute) little _shit._

Flint had gone over to Silver’s flat earlier that evening with the intention of only spending a short time with the cat. He tossed a toy around for her and she played along, retrieving the small orange mouse in a way Flint thought only dogs were capable of. He even brought a book along and read a chapter to justify staying longer so Walrus had a little company in the evening.

When he tried leaving, Walrus walked around him in hurried circles, chirping and shaking her tail the entire time. Then she gazed up at him with her large green eye and blinked slowly at him. She looked like something out of a sad children’s book.

Flint would never admit it, but he had first considered bringing her to his flat then. Instead, he persevered (was he really the type of man to be guilted by a small one-eyed cat?), and escaped back to his own flat.

Then she cried. And whined. Then cried and whined some more.

Fifteen minutes would go by and Flint would think he finally had peace, but then she’d start up again. After two hours of Walrus’ near incessant whining, he decided it was better for both parties (and the rest of the people on their floor) if he just brought her back to his damn flat.

As soon as he put the key in Silver’s lock, Walrus stopped the noise making. When he finally managed to get in, she was sitting patiently next to the door. She looked at him as if to say, _What’s your problem?_

Now that he has finally crawled into bed for the night and Walrus has made herself comfortable alongside his hip, Flint finds he might not hate the company.

Flint looks at his phone one more time and finds a reply from Silver, sent about five minutes ago. _Sounds about right_

He peers over at Walrus and she’s sound asleep. If Flint listens hard enough, he can hear her snoring quietly. He might smile at the scene, but who’s to say?

Silver sends another text, dispelling the not-smile. _Sorry it must be late at home. I should let you sleep_

Flint puts the phone down on the bedside table, thinking that’s a sufficient end to their conversation, but as soon as the phone leaves his hand, it vibrates loudly against the wood.

“Oh, come on,” Flint says and picks the phone up again. Walrus lets out an irritated meow as she repositions herself. He squints at the words on the screen. _Good night, neighbor_

Flint hesitates, but then slowly taps out, _Good night, Silver._ He puts the phone down for the last time and wills himself to sleep.

—

The following morning Miranda calls him during his commute.

“How’s the guest?” she asks, in lieu of a greeting.

“Walrus? I think she’s fairly comfortable.”

It comes out as more of a question, but really, he doesn’t think the cat is at all displeased with their current arrangement. In fact, Walrus was still sleeping on the bed when he woke up, though she had spread herself out at the foot of the bed at some point in the night. Once he started his morning routine she trailed after him from room to room, laying nearby whenever he came to a stop. During breakfast, she attempted to hop up on the counter, but it didn’t end well. After some persuasive whining (read: _loud_ ) he reluctantly placed her on the counter where she stuck her face into whichever was closer—his cup of coffee or bowl of cereal.

“Why on earth would you name a cat Walrus?”

“An excellent question that I, unfortunately, cannot answer. She’s my ridiculous neighbor’s cat.”

Miranda laughs briefly. It’s tinny and scrambled over the phone, but a lovely sound all the same. “And why is your neighbor’s cat in your flat?”

“I made the mistake of offering to cat sit while he’s on vacation for the week.”

“How thoughtful,” she says with a note of sarcasm.

“Indeed,” he says, resting his head in his hand and closing his eyes.

“How exactly did she end up _in_ your flat?”

Flint massages his thumb against his temple, trying to quell the headache he can feel brewing as he begins to go through the trials of the previous night. When he finishes, Miranda nearly dissolves into a fit of laughter. “James,” she begins between breaths, “I can’t believe you were swindled by a cat.”

“Yes, well,” he says, feeling the heat of embarrassment. He opens his eyes and straightens himself in the bus seat and notices the woman sitting across from him is staring. He scowls at her in an attempt to regain a little of his sense of self. She _hmphs_ in his direction and returns to her book.

On the other end of the phone, he can tell Miranda is gearing up to ask him something. When she finally does her voice is a little too hesitant for his liking. “Are you having any feelings? About the neighbor?”

“Loathsome, murderous, spiteful, contemptuous, near-constant irritation...”

“I think I’ve got it, thank you.” He can visualize Miranda rolling her eyes at him. “Don’t think we won’t revisit this later.”

“I’d expect nothing less,” Flint says and finds he doesn’t mind the prospect.

“Remember when Thomas was set on getting a dog?”

Flint grins at the memory. “Of course, I do.”

He remembers it quite well, Thomas sending the two of them link after link to different dogs from a nearby shelter. He didn’t limit himself by breed or age; any dog that looked cute enough, or sad enough— _especially_ sad enough—was sent their way, along with a little note on why the dog would make an excellent addition to their family.

Whenever Thomas became a little too excited about one, Flint and Miranda would take turns explaining why they couldn’t adopt a dog--their schedules were too busy, who would handle the training, how could they pick just one. Sometimes it felt like talking to a child. Admittedly, he and Miranda loved it.

Miranda sighs softly into the phone. “Well, I should let you get on with your morning. Good luck with the cat. And send more pictures!”

Flint agrees and tells Miranda to have a good day. The rest of the ride his thoughts drift between the past and the present, and before he knows it, the bus has arrived at his stop.

-

Later that afternoon, Flint finds himself sitting across from Eleanor Guthrie while they have their usual end-of-the-month lunch.

He doesn’t quite remember how they started, but he looks forward to them nonetheless. He’s always enjoyed Eleanor’s company whenever they’re together. They get along well enough—have done so from the beginning. She had just started as the principal shortly before he was hired at the high school. In fact, Eleanor was one of the individuals who interviewed him, and was a large part of why he accepted the position when he was initially on the fence about the decision.

Flint had heard the comments that were made about Ms Guthrie&mdashsome rumor, some fact. Sure, she was young, but she held herself authoritatively, her presence demanding respect. She carried with her the weight of her father’s name; a name that had once been powerful in the academic world, but had only grown heavier from a scandal a few years back. Now, it was Eleanor who was, not quite rising from the ashes—it wasn’t her intention to restore her family’s good name—but she was going to make an impact. Even if she was starting at a smaller school.

Flint had found a kinship in the way Eleanor worked and how she handled herself amongst the faculty. She was blunt, but mostly fair, and tried to do what was best for the school.

It also helped that early on (during a faculty-related outing that involved a little too much alcohol) Eleanor had mentioned having a girlfriend, before quickly correcting herself with, _partner._ Over the course of his employment, she’s continued to mention her on-again, off-again girlfriend, Max, in passing conversations.

The two have been talking throughout most of their lunch, but when Eleanor finishes complaining about the Maths teacher they both hate, they reach a lull.

While the two of them slip closer to an awkward silence—a rare occurrence for them—Flint remembers his conversation with Gates. When he finishes chewing his last bite, he says bluntly, “Gates mentioned you’ve been a bear recently.”

When Eleanor raises her eyebrows in two questioning arcs over her glass of lemonade, Flint raises his hand in a pacifying gesture. “I hadn’t really noticed.”

“Well, you seem to have been a little distracted yourself,” she says, putting her glass down and looking at him pointedly.

“Don’t deflect,” he chides.

Eleanor rolls her eyes at him, looking more like a petulant teen than the principal of a school. Flint smiles despite himself.

She exhales deeply. “I guess I have been a bit disagreeable lately.”

Flint waits for her to continue. Eleanor takes another long drink. At first he thinks maybe she won’t say anything more, but then she starts, “Can I ask you a personal question?”

It’s not at all what Flint was anticipating and the surprise must show on his face because Eleanor adds, “It’s okay, obviously, if not. I was just—”

“No-no, it’s fine. You can ask.”

Eleanor nods once, blushing brightly. “You’ve had experience with an open relationship, right?”

If Flint was surprised before, he feels even more blindsided now.

“You really don’t have to answer. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.” Eleanor sounds even more embarrassed now.

It’s Flint’s turn to take a drink, gather his thoughts, but Eleanor barrels on, trying to justify her question.

“My girlfriend and I, we’ve been taking a break. For nearly six months, now, in an attempt to become better friends and I think it’s working.” She looks up at Flint now with a small, hopeful smile. He returns it, but he feels an ache of bittersweet nostalgia.

Eleanor looks back down at her plate and pokes at the remnants of her lunch with a fork. “Things have been going really well, but... She’s dating someone new. And they’ve been happy together, really happy.

“At first I thought that was it for the two of us. Of course, remaining friends would be wonderful, more than I could hope for, really. But then Max had suggested that we could try something...different, something we could all find agreeable.”

The blush has deepened, but Eleanor finally looks up at him again. He tries to give her his best sympathetic look to encourage her to continue, even though he already assumes what she’s going to ask.

“I guess, what I’m wondering is, if you do have experience with an open relationship, was it worth it?”

Flint doesn’t have to give it any thought. “Yes.”

“Yes?” She seems surprised at his response, either at how quickly he gives it, or the answer itself. “Really?”

“Absolutely.”

He doesn’t tell her that his relationship with the Hamilton’s wasn’t open, that it was closed and private, something special between the three of them.

Instead, when it looks like Eleanor is going to ask something more, he continues. “It’s not easy loving more than one person, or even sharing the person you love with someone else. But if you can make it work, any of the difficulty feels like a small price to pay.” Flint hesitates, but then Eleanor gives him that same hopeful smile, and he reaches across the table to give her hand an encouraging squeeze. “It’s worth it, I promise.”

Eleanor squeezes back. “Thank you,” she says sincerely. Flint just nods and offers to go pay for their meal, letting Eleanor have some time to process a little more.

When he returns, she grins up at him and for just a moment he remembers how young she is. Not in a condescending way, but in that same bittersweet way from earlier. He remembers being young and hopeful, how large and momentous everything felt when he started his relationship with the Hamilton’s. He hopes it goes well for her, he really does.

Before they start to leave, Flint can’t help asking, “Why did you ask me, specifically? About the relationship.”

“Gates,” she says, simply. “I needled at him for some time.” Eleanor attempts to feign embarrassment, but he can tell she’s at least a little pleased with herself.

Flint’s doesn’t know how to respond to that. He isn’t disappointed, not with Gates, or even surprised by Eleanor’s actions, but he feels more vulnerable than he had initially anticipated after their conversation.

Eleanor, standing up, offers him an apologetic smile. “For what it’s worth, I don’t _know_ any of the particulars. Hal was very tight-lipped about the whole thing and only offered confirmation of what I asked.”

The knot of anxiety that had begun to form in his stomach doesn’t go away, but it does loosen.

In an attempt to clear the air, Eleanor gives Flint her best self-deprecating smile. “Now that we’ve discussed my personal issues, does that mean we can discuss yours? How is Chad, by the way?”

She looks relieved when Flint rolls his eyes with a little more gusto than normal. “No, thank you. I think that’s enough for one lunch, don’t you?”

Eleanor looks at him dubiously. “Now who’s deflecting?” but she lets it drop, instead returning to the topic of the remaining term while they continue their walk back.

-

The rest of the week with Walrus goes like this:

When Flint gets home in the evenings, he opens his door and finds her waiting for him either on the floor or the nearest piece of furniture. She chatters as though she’s asking him how his day was or, more likely, complaining about her own. Throughout the night, Flint might say something and Walrus will meow back almost conversationally.

Walrus watches him cook from her perch on one of the chairs at the kitchen table, her tail swinging back and forth like a pendulum. When he sits down to eat, she hounds him for his food until he gives in and offers her at least a small piece of his dinner.

When Flint works on writing new assignments or grading old ones, he takes one of her toys (a bendy stick with a stuffed fish and feathers dangling off the end) and bounces it around until she swipes at it. If he’s not paying close enough attention, she’ll latch on to the fish and becomes a miniature Moby Dick. Occasionally, Flint is distracted enough that his grip loosens and Walrus takes hold of the toy and runs through the apartment with it trailing behind her.

A few times, Flint wakes in the middle of the night to the sound of Walrus doing sprints throughout his flat only for her to pause and yowl into the night. When he wakes in the morning, she’s usually hidden somewhere in the planes of his bedding. Honestly, Flint hates how adorable she looks in the morning, particularly after an evening full of yelling.

In general, if Walrus is being particularly cute or obnoxious, Flint will take a picture and send it to Silver. He tells himself that it’s only because the man constantly pesters him for photos, not because Silver almost always sends his own photo for every one that Flint sends. The photos range from vibrant sunsets and serene ocean views, to bustling market scenes and a few candid shots of Madi. Usually there’s a text or two offering some context, other times they’re completely unrelated. He and Silver will chat off and on during the nights, talking about nothing particularly important.

As he nears the end of the week, Flint thinks, if anyone were to ask him, he might say his time watching the cat has been nice. He might even say he enjoys Walrus’s company (and Silver’s texts), but only under extreme duress.

-

Of course, when Flint is full of goodwill over the whole arrangement, Walrus decides to be an absolute little menace.

The cat has been with him for almost an entire week, but Friday night, once Flint has gone to sleep, she decides to make it her personal mission to get into any closed door in his flat.

She first scratches at his closet door, so he leaves it open for her to explore—which she does, rather loudly and clumsily. After the closet becomes boring, Walrus moves on to the dresser drawers. The sound of tiny nails scratching relentlessly on wood is a sound Flint never had the opportunity to hate before this, but now he loathes it. Especially in the middle of the night. He doesn’t know how many excruciating minutes pass before he finally throws off the covers, turns on a light, and stomps over to the dresser.

Walrus meows up at him, doing her best to look innocent.

“Why are you doing this to me?”

She blinks at him and then stretches up the front of the dresser, one paw curling around the edge of the drawer. He can see her nails digging into the wood.

“Please stop,” he sighs while gently removing her paw from the drawer. She lets out a long, offended whine before quickly cleaning the paw he had just touched.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says as he opens the drawer Walrus was trying to get into. Though he’s not sure if he means the cat or himself.

Walrus bumps her head into his arm as he moves, then crawls into the drawer as soon as there’s enough room. She spends a few seconds kneading the contents of the drawer—sweaters Flint hopes aren’t now full of snags—before finally curling herself into a neat little ball.

Flint hopes that will be the end of it for the night, but then Walrus moves on from the bedroom and causes a commotion in the kitchen. There isn’t too much she can get into, so Flint decides to just close his door and will himself to go back to sleep.

At 3:00 a.m., Flint realizes the error in his thinking when he hears the sound of Walrus’ nails on his door frame. Of course, a closed door that can’t be opened without opposable thumbs would be far more alluring than the rest of his flat.

Flint begrudgingly gets out of bed for the third time that night and lets Walrus in. She has the nerve to give him an enthusiastic chirp, then trots into the bedroom like the sun us up and they’re getting ready for the day.

“You’re a bastard.”

Walrus flicks her tail with a little bit of an attitude, as if to say, _Thank you, I know._ When her mouth breaks open into a wide yawn, Flint hopes she’ll finally end her nighttime antics.

Flint drops back down onto his bed and watches the cat. Before he registers what he’s doing, Flint grabs his phone off the bedside table to text Silver.

_Your cat is an asshole._

Walrus has begun to circle his ankles, letting him know that she’d rather be up by him. Flint obliges and places her on the bed where she quickly curls up along his side. He rubs his thumb along the bridge of her nose and curses himself for finding her so cute.

After giving her some reluctant affection, Flint attempts to reposition her so that he can actually get into the bed, but he’s interrupted by the ringing of his phone.

Panic shoots through Flint when he sees the string of numbers he’s come to associate with Silver flash across his phone screen. He looks to Walrus for some kind of help, but her eyes are already closed—and she’s a fucking _cat_ —so he just answers the phone.

“Hello?” Flint winces at the tone of his voice. It’s rougher than he anticipated, but figures he can blame it on the hour.

For his part, Silver sounds surprised that Flint even picked up. “Oh, hello.” Then a beat. “Shit, I shouldn’t have called you.”

“Probably not, but it’s okay.”

Silver carries on as if Flint said nothing. “It’s just that you texted, so I figured you were up, but I didn’t really—”

“It’s fine,” Flint insists. He’s tired enough to find Silver’s ramblings endearing, but still... “Afterall, I texted you.”

“Sorry about my cat,” Silver says, but doesn’t sound sorry at all. In fact, he can hear his sly smile all the way across the damn ocean. Flint grins despite himself.

“She can be quite the little terror when she wants to be.” He peers down at Walrus who is still laying against his thigh. Her eyes are closed, but he doubts she’s actually sleeping. Flint runs his finger down her back and she lets out a small huff.

“I did tell you. Though, you said I deserved it.”

“I still stand by that. You’re both shits.”

Silver snorts in response. Flint, for whatever reason, is pleased with himself.

As if she knows she’s being discussed, Walrus reaches back and bites Flint’s hand mid-pet, clearly annoyed.

“ _Hey,_ ” he chastises, but Walrus, as usual, is unimpressed. He glares, but brings her up to his chest so he can better reposition the two of them in the bed. Once settled, he leans over to turn off the light.

Silver must hear the rustling because he asks, “Are you in bed?” Then, in an exaggerated attempt at sounding seductive, “What are you wearing?”

“Don’t do that,” Flint says flatly. “And yes. It’s three in the morning, of course we’re in bed.”

Silver, much like his cat, isn’t phased. “Knew there’d be cuddles.”

God, Flint hates him. “Oh, shut up.”

Then they’re both quiet, save for the sound of Silver doing some shifting of his own. He thinks he can hear the sounds of traffic in the distance. “Where are you, anyway?”

“I don’t think you could call it a bar, but I am consuming alcohol at an outdoor market. Only a reasonable amount, mind.” Flint assumes Silver takes a drink and then adds, “The moon is beautiful by the way, you should see it.”

It’s late enough that Flint can no longer see the moon out of his bedroom window, just a pale beam on the floor that might actually be a streetlight. Flint can imagine Silver sipping his drink at a table similar to one from his photos earlier in the week. If he allowed himself, Flint thinks he could picture the shadows across his face from the moonlight mixed with the crap lighting of the market. He almost wishes he was there to see it.

“I have,” Flint responds after too long of a pause. “Though I doubt my view could hold a candle to yours.”

Silver hums in agreement.

It feels strange sitting on the phone with Silver while he looks up at a moon that Flint has already seen—nothing but static and thousands of miles between them. Something about the late hour makes it feel as though they’re in their own bubble outside of time. It’s fragile and tenuous. Flint knows that the reasonable thing to do is say his goodbyes, but he’s reluctant to let the bubble burst.

Of all the things he could say, Flint surprises himself by asking, “Are things...okay?”

While they’ve texted nearly every day since Silver has been gone, they’ve skirted around the purpose of the trip, and Flint is positive there has to be something off. Nothing has made it seem like a regular holiday.

Silver doesn’t say anything right away and Flint assumes he’s gone too far past the acceptable level of familiarity. He’s about to say something else when Silver exhales deeply into the line.

“Madi’s father was in a car accident. That’s why we’re here—helping with recovery. Well, Madi’s helping, I am here for moral support. Though I’m not sure how much it’s helping since her father has never been my number one fan. And her mother has only...tolerated me since Madi and I split.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s fine. He’s fine,” Silver continues slowly, voice pitched low and more serious than Flint has heard him before. “Mostly unscathed, just a broken arm and fractured ankle, lots of bruising. Well, not _just_...but, you know what I mean.”

Flint makes an agreeable sort of noise, but waits to say anything, sensing there’s more Silver wants to get out. Walrus has made herself comfortable in the “V” between his chest and pulled up legs. He’s been absently petting her since they moved and he’s rewarded by the low hum of her purring.

When Silver doesn’t offer anything more, Flint hesitates, then asks quietly, “Are _you_ okay?”

“I am...peachy.” Silver laughs sharply. “Did I mention these drinks have rather adorable umbrellas?”

Flint shakes his head.

“I can hear the look you’re giving me.”

Flint scoffs loud enough that Walrus makes a soft, displeased noise. He thinks that will be the end of the conversation, but to his surprise, Silver says, “I was in a car accident a few years back and came out of it with one less leg. As you’ve obviously noticed,” he adds with a forced lightness.

“I think,” Silver starts again, but pauses, considering his next words, “seeing Madi’s father whole and intact has had more of an effect on me than I thought it would.”

The admission hangs between them, something more open and honest than Flint had been anticipating. He has a feeling Silver wouldn’t have admitted it so freely if they had been having this conversation in person, or at a reasonable hour. Flint doesn’t know how to respond; anything he can think of, Silver has probably heard before, and he doesn’t want to sound condescending.

Before he knows it, though, Silver is clearing his throat. “There is also a fair amount of alcohol in these drinks. And, fuck, it’s _late._ I should let you go.”

Flint looks over at the clock. It’s 3:24 a.m., but he finds he doesn’t mind too much. Now that she’s settled, Walrus is a warm, comforting presence, and if he’s being honest, he likes the sound of Silver’s voice.

“Alright,” Flint agrees, unable to suppress his yawn.

“Goodnight,” Silver says, sounding thoughtful. “Thank you. For putting up with Walrus,” he clarifies. “I’ll see you soon, I guess. Depending on the time zone.”

Flint’s mouth quirks up ever so slightly. “Get home safe, Silver.”

“Always do.”

Then, Flint is left with the late-night quiet of his room and a sleeping cat along his side. He tucks the thought of John Silver sitting alone under the bright white light of the moon in the very back of his mind before drifting off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> raise your hand if your cat is a bastard and you love them. <3


End file.
